Silent Night
by Trekkie101
Summary: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?"  1x01  Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only.
1. This is Not Rainy Weather

**Silent Night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!**

**Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.**

"You know better than to ask me for a cause of death on scene, Jane." Maura's voice was dry but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards and Jane grinned in response.

"So you're saying there's something besides the burns?" the brunette countered.

"I'm saying that the third degree burns covering this man's body have not been determined to be the cause of death."

"But he is a man, perfect, I'll let Frost know." Maura sighed in exasperation.

"You _always_ do that!" She remained kneeling by the body but glared playfully over her shoulder at her best friend.

"Yep, and you love me for it." Before Maura could respond, Jane's phone rang. She glanced at the number and a shadow passed across her face, but she shook it off and gestured with the phone at Maura.

"I need to take this. Let me know when the body's out." Maura nodded in response and turned back to the body, but her attention remained with Jane who was stepping carefully into the next room.

"Jane Rizzoli." The tall brunette's voice was muffled. "Hi, Father Zach, how are you?" After these words, Jane was two rooms away and Maura could no longer hear her, so she forced herself to refocus on her assistants who had just brought the body bag in.

_. . ._

_Darkness spread through the cavernous building like an old quilt, rich with the feeling of safety, and warm in a way that darkness usually wasn't. Around her, she could almost feel the heat of a thousand tiny candles as they flickered, casting moving shadows against quarried stone and colored glass. She did not notice the congregation of hundreds or the movement of children in the aisles, holding pillared candles and trying not to fidget. She didn't notice the flapping of vestments or the smell of spiced cologne as the man in charge of the lights moved past her, returning to his own family. She felt, more than heard, the lowered lights, the ethereal hush which washed over the room, and the gentle glitter of snow as it blanketed the roof far above her. In contrast to her everyday persona, her focus narrowed completely to the ivory keys in front of her._

. . .

It took almost no time for word to reach the CSRU techs, and eventually the morgue, that Jane was on a rampage. Maura heard that the tall brunette had chewed out a beat cop for forgetting to tape off the parking lot, and a crime scene tech for forgetting to bag his slippers on the way out the door. While Maura understood Jane's concerns about losing a conviction through carelessness, the blonde also knew that Jane's patience was generally much more extensive when it came to training "the kids," as she often called them. Everyone had to start somewhere, and if she was yelling at them instead of taking the time to work with them, something definitely had her strung up. No, wait, that wasn't the idiom. Strung out. That was it.

"Maur, do you still have half and half in the dead fridge?" Jane's voice was tinged with frustration and her usual swagger had slumped slightly. Maura looked up from the body cavity before her and smiled at her friend.

"Yes, I do," she replied, and watched as Jane plopped her travel mug on the counter before retrieving the carton. For a moment, Maura contemplated the best course of action. Jane was both upset and exhausted by the looks of it, likely due in part to the three open cases still under investigation and a recently closed fourth. There was no doubt in Maura's mind that, as Jane's best friend, responsibility fell to her in getting Jane to open up about whatever was bothering her. Yet Maura had been studying Jane for almost two years and she knew that questioning Jane now would likely get her nowhere.

"What have you got on the Suarez case?" Jane asked as she replaced the half and half in the fridge.

"I completed the autopsy about an hour ago, but I wanted to process Mr. Crispy, here, before organizing my notes. If you could wait about twenty minutes, I can retrieve my findings, or I can submit them fully this evening."

"Mr. Crispy, Maura? Really?" Jane's eyebrows arched high on her forehead as she took a gulp of coffee from her mug and leaned against the counter.

"That's what Sergeant Korsak called the body at the scene. Is that incorrect?" Maura paused in her efforts to remove the large intestine within the body and looked to Jane for confirmation.

"No, it's not incorrect. I just never expected to hear _you_ say that."

"I am a woman of many surprises," the blonde commented, placing the large organ on a tray to be dissected further.

"That you are." For a moment, the only sound in the room came from the flesh of the man's small intestine as it snaked out of his abdomen. "As soon as I get the rest of these organs sealed for later, I can fill you in on the female body from your Suarez case." Jane limply waved Maura's words away.

"Nah, take your time. I sent Frost home half an hour ago 'cause he was dead on his feet."

"Yes, I noticed his increased intolerance of the body earlier when he came to see me," Maura responded, carefully detaching the man's gastrointestinal tract from his body. "Now that the longshoreman's case has been solved, rest seems a logical course of action." The blonde looked pointedly at her best friend who cracked a tired grin.

"He went home because I told him I'd do the paperwork, Maura. Sleep will come in a few hours." To her credit, Maura understood. Nodding, she returned to the organs on the tray in front of her.

"Why don't you bring your work down here? We could play some music in my office and work together." Seeing that Jane was about to protest, the M.E. added, "I wouldn't mind the company." Jane's face softened.

"Okay. Let me just run up and get my stuff." Maura grinned.

"I believe the phrase is, 'I'll be here.'"

. . .

_Her hands felt numb, which was never a good sign. She'd made it through several instrumental introductory pieces—classical music with a touch of Christmas that she's known almost by heart for seventeen years—and the processional. _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!_ had never felt as lively as it had that night when she realized that she was doing it, her hands were doing it, her fingers were doing it. Now, her play count was up to eleven. One more song, then two pieces to lead out, and she could say that she'd done it._

_But could she do it?_

. . .

Eight days. Eight days of Maura hearing the whispered conversations of CSRU technicians as they scurried to complete Jane's evidence analyzation before she came barreling down for them. Eight days of watching Jane fidget more and more intensely with the scars in the middle of her palms. Eight days of crime scenes where she'd had to bite her lip to keep from telling Jane to calm down. Eight days of watching Frost and Korsak exchange worried glances as Frankie attempted to clean up the battered remains of patrol officers on scene. Eight days and Maura'd had quite enough of Hurricane Jane. Packing the last of her things into her purse, the blonde knew that, this evening, Jane's apartment was her singular destination. There would be no texting her for a drink at the Robber or with an offer of take out. No, if Jane wanted to act like a force of nature, then Maura could only oblige in return. Driving carefully though speedily to Jane's home, the M.E. contemplated her choices, but realized that the unpredictability of Jane's personality she'd come to care for so much in her best friend made planning pointless. Knocking on the door, Maura simply decided to go with it.

"Did I forget that we were meeting?" a bleary eyed Jane Rizzoli asked as she opened the door.

"No, I just decided to stop by," came Maura's response as she invited herself in, brushing her hand gently down the side of Jane's arm as she passed.

"Don't mind the mess. It's been a long week." Jane resettled into the couch, and Maura glanced at the "mess"—several empty bottles of beer, an empty pizza box, and four pairs of socks.

"A little disorganization is understandable after the recent pile of cases," the blonde returned, sitting down next to Jane. "You want to tell me what you did to your hands?" Jane paused, realizing that even as Maura had spoken, she'd unconsciously been worrying at her wrists and palms.

"What do you mean?" Maura arched an eyebrow at the question, and Jane shrugged. "It's just the weather. Gettin' rainy, you know?" Maura reached out and gently took a hold of Jane's left hand. The brunette tensed imperceptibly but did not pull away.

"This," the M.E. commented quietly, letting her fingertips run over the tightness of Jane's forearm and down into the trembling, taught tendons in Jane's palm, "is not rainy weather." For a good minute, they sat together like this, both women watching as Maura's fingers began to apply deeper pressure to the tiny, clenching muscles of Jane's hand.

"No, it's not."

**A/N First, I would really likely to thank all of the amazing authors and readers who read and reviewed "Ask Me." Your support was wonderful and I am proud to say I finished that fic. I hope you like this one, as well, although it will be different (not **_**as**_** sappy, for one thing).**

**Also, I am completely ignoring the last third of Season Two. Quite frankly, I hated the season finale, and not just because Jane slept with Dean or she and Maura had a fight we now have to wait seven months to see the conclusion of. No, I hated that episode because I feel that the actions of both women were, IMHO, inherently out of character for them. I CANNOT believe that Jane would have sex with **_**anyone**_** while her best friend was sitting in a hospital room at the bedside of her on-life-support mother. I cannot believe that Maura would have such a turn around with Patty Doyle and her biological mother to the point where she is desperate to find out anything she can at the risk of an FBI agent, her best friend, and one of her partners. And I cannot believe that Jane would tell **_**Gabriel**_** what was going on with Patty Doyle when she didn't even want Frankie or her mother to know about Maura's connection to him. Therefore, I am pretending it does not exist. Sorry if that doesn't work for you, but it works for me. :D**

**R&R if you so choose, as always. Thank you for reading.**


	2. I Want It Back

**Silent Night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!**

**Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.**

"_Hello Jane." His voice was as gentle as she always remembered it was._

"_I'm well, how are you?" She answered his genuine concern with sarcasm, her instincts not dimmed by a lifetime's relationship._

"_I'm always glad to hear that. Your mother worries often, and I am given to wondering if she occasionally has cause." An internal scoff and a literal roll of the eyes._

"_Yes, indeed, child. Your job, though admirable, does tend to bring you a little closer to the pearly gates than the rest of us, I'd imagine." A small chuckle of agreement rolls up from her throat._

"_Listen, Jane. I am mostly calling about Christmas Eve." Of course he was._

. . .

Maura's hands were skilled, Jane could say that much. The brunette watched as pink-tipped fingers dug soothingly but incautiously into the recesses of her wrists and hand, warming and massaging muscles which hadn't been _really_ right for a long time. Each time Maura paused her work on one hand to pick up the other, Jane could feel the loss of her touch as wholly as she'd felt the rush of cold air each time Frankie had yanked the blankets from her bed as they grew up. 'This is not rainy weather,' Maura had said without question. And it really was not.

"I got a phone call last week," Jane began slowly. "It was Father Zach. He's, uh… He's the priest at my church."

"St. Patrick's?" Maura clarified.

"Yeah." Jane wasn't even remotely surprised that Maura knew which church she had attended growing up. "I've known him my whole life. He's one of three priests there, and he's different than the others. Younger, I think. More… real? Open. He baptized me and confirmed me. I still feel like he's my priest. Even though I haven't been to church in a long time." The M.E. nodded.

"He seems like someone you would remain close to regardless of your attendance." Maura laid Jane's hands back down in her lap and turned on the couch to look more fully at Jane while she spoke.

"Yeah. I mean, he came and visited me in the hospital after I shot Mariano. And I still go to church on holidays, you know?" Maura nodded in agreement, having known Jane's whole family to attend services during Easter and Christmas all of the two years she'd been friends with the detective. "Well, he, uh… He called to find out if I would be at mass on Christmas Eve." Jane heaved herself out of the couch's deep cushions and began to pace slowly, flexing her hands to test their lessened pain.

"You generally do. I don't see why this year would be particularly problematic," Maura commented slowly, still wondering what all of this had to do with Jane's battered hands and her vicious mood.

"I don't just attend, Maura." Jane's gaze was planted firmly on the wooded slats of the floor.

"Oh?"

"I play. Piano." The brunette looked up and met Maura's gaze, her hands, palm up, spread out before her.

. . .

"_I, well, I'm not sure, Father Zach." The kind voice on the other end of the line hummed out a question._

"_I mean, I'd love to. Really. I'm just not sure I…" He interrupted her next words with a mention of the monster, apologizing for having forgotten, and his knowledge—the constant, unending connection to a dead man regardless of time and circumstance—made her angry._

"_You know what? No. I'll be there. I'll do it." More kind words, from a voice she couldn't find it within herself to be truly upset with._

"_Midnight mass, like always, Father Zach. I'll be there."_

. . .

Maura stood and moved towards Jane, not taking her eyes from the taller woman's face, which was open and colored with desperation. She lifted her hands and laid them in Jane's, letting her fingertips rest against the scars which cut jaggedly across each palm. She knew she was one of the only people allowed to touch her hands in this way, to see her this unguarded, and to barge in, demanding answers as she had tonight. Maura didn't take this privilege lightly. In actuality, she cherished it as a gift more precious to her than any she had ever been given. And she desperately hoped that she returned the trust and love to her best friend whenever it was given to her.

"You've been practicing. Since he called." He words were not a question, though she kept her tone of voice light.

"Yes."

"Much more than you should have been," the blonde commented again.

"Yes." For a minute, the apartment's silence was broken only by the click of Jo Friday's nails on the kitchen linoleum. Maura lifted her hands from Jane's and pulled them together, holding the long, bony hands of her best friend between them.

"Do you want to play this year?" the M.E. questioned, refusing to allow Jane to look away.

"Yes." Maura nodded, expecting the response, and moved towards the kitchen. "No." The defeat in Jane's voice made her pause. "I don't know." Jane turned to her best friend, imploring—begging, almost—for her to understand. "He's taken too much, Maura. Too much."

"Hoyt?" the blonde clarified, remaining in the doorway to the kitchen, arms unconsciously wrapped around her middle as images of their final meeting with the sociopath swam through her mind. When she pulled herself from her thoughts back to the present, Jane had moved in front of her, lifting a hand to the shorter woman's neck where her own faint scar rested. Maura resisted pulling away, knowing that Jane had shown her great trust each time she allowed contact with her hands and so deserved nothing less in return, but she hated her scar and disliked reminders of its existence.

"He almost took you." The words were barely there, ghosting past her cheek and rustling the very edges of her hair.

"He didn't take me, Jane," was Maura's quiet reply. "You made sure of that."

"No," Jane agreed. "You're still here. And Frankie was still here after Lola, and Korsak's still here after I knew we would never be partners again, and I'm still alive." Jane abruptly dropped her hand from Maura's neck. "But we all have scars."

"Scars are inevitable when the damage to the tissue is more than minimally invasive. They are a part of who we are."

"And yet, you wore a scarf for three and a half weeks after Hoyt put that on you, and you still flinched when my hand went near it." Maura couldn't help it as Jane's words made her wince. The truth was hard to take sometimes. Jane sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Sorry. I'm being a jerk." Maura chose not to respond, but watched as Jane moved to the piano which was nestled against the wall by the door. Her long arms reached the keys easily although she was standing, an she ran calloused fingertips over their ivory surfaces. "My grandfather bought me this piano when I graduated from high school. I was the first one, in my family, you know?"

"I didn't know that," the blonde responded, moving back into the living room and sitting on the arm of the couch.

"My Nonna had died before junior year, and he sold all of her jewelry so that I could have a piano to play." Jane sat heavily on the bench. "And now I can't." Maura moved slowly to sit beside Jane.

"Show me?" She kept her voice light, hoping that Jane would think she was asking as a friend and not as a doctor, but the truth was that both halves of her were equally interested. The brunette sighed again, but straightened her posture and lifted her hands to the keys once more. For a few seconds, her hands hovered there, and Maura held her breath for fear of spooking her best friend, but then her eyes drifted closed and the melody spilled from under her hands like liquid silk.

As "Amazing Grace" poured from the body of the upright piano, Maura simultaneously remembered and forgot how to breathe. The feeling of Jane's music as it drifted quietly, then swelled to a pounding sway of emotion, made her think of hand embroidered silk and chocolate wine. Her eyes closed and she felt everything in her that she often kept locked in a box of expectations and responsibilities spill out into the open with the music.

As the music rose to its climax, however, Maura felt the woman beside her grow more and more tense. When she wrenched her eyes open, she found Jane's face taut, but her fingers even tighter, and watched as her right hand tried but failed to find a full octave C chord, then tripped as both hands tried to scuttle down through several arpeggios. Jane attempted to recover despite the disparate, clanging notes but grew frustrated and finally just let the melody halt, her hands falling into her lap. Both women were silent for a minute, but Maura couldn't watch her best friend in pain for long without attempting to fix it, so she reached for Jane's hands.

"He took this from me, Maura." Jane's voice was hoarse from trying not to cry. "He took it, and I want it back."

**A/N The version of "Amazing Grace" I listened to while writing the final section of this chapter was played by Norm Hastings, and can be found on YouTube. It is not, necessarily, how Jane would play it, but it had the quality of inner musicality and spirit that I imagine of Jane.**


	3. No Need to Get Ridiculous

**Silent Night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!**

**Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.**

"I don't know what you said to Rizzoli, but it worked." Maura minimized the window of her computer screen out of habit, her head snapping up to meet Korsak's gaze.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, I don't know what you said to Jane between yesterday and today, but it worked. The whole department is grateful." The older detective's face was lit with a sincere grin, but Maura's look of confusion did not change.

"What makes you think I said something to Jane?" Korsak's smile didn't falter one bit.

"Because you're the only person who's ever been able to get her down from one of her tirades." Her shrugged and turned to go, knowing his message had been received. "Just thought you'd like to know." Maura tried to suppress the smile of satisfaction, but it crept across her face regardless.

"Thank you, detective. I, uh… I'm glad to hear that Jane has returned to her usual pleasant demeanor." The older man waved over his shoulder at her as he pushed open the doors leading from the morgue and Maura reopened the window of Internet Explorer she had been working in. For several hours, she had forgone her usual habit of scanning her favorite designer sites looking for the newest shoe designs, in favor of refreshing herself in myology. She'd studied muscles extensively in medical school, and the large muscles of the abdomen, organs, and throat were often repeat subjects of her autopsies. The more delicate muscles, however, such as those nestled in Jane's carpals, running through her palms into her fingers, were another matter entirely. As a result, Maura had spent her open afternoon pouring through medical journals and re-familiarizing herself with the region.

"Dr. Isles? There's a delivery man here who needs your signature." One of the lab technicians had stuck her head inside the door to Maura's office.

"Thank you, Hannah," Maura replied, rising to meet the delivery at the plastic-covered entrance. Signing her name quickly, Maura moved back into her office and sliced open the packing tape with a scissor, pulling out the items she had ordered earlier that morning. A glance at her watch told her Jane's shift should have ended fifty-six minutes ago, so she pressed the number two on her speed dial.

"Rizzoli."

"Jane, are you still here?" Maura propped the phone between her shoulder and ear, her hands examining the wrist brace with care.

"If by here, you mean I haven't gone home, then yes, I'm here." Maura could hear the telltale creaking of Jane's desk chair as she likely leaned back in it.

"If you're ready to leave, would you mind stopping down to see me? I have something I want to show you."

"Of course," Jane replied, her voice already sounding less tense. "Gimme ten minutes and I'll be down."

"Thank you," Maura responded, ending the call with a click and pulling the heat wraps from the box.

. . .

_Again. Once more and she'd have it, all the way through. Once more._

_Damn it._

_Her mind knew the progressions backwards and forwards. Her eyes scanned page after page of black and white melody lines with the practiced ease of someone who had been playing, and playing well, for more than two decades. Synapses fired messages from the deep recesses of her mind and down her arms, but they tripped over the scarring and made her fingers stumble._

_Damn it._

_Again. Once more and she could get it, all the way through. Once more._

. . .

She'd refused to wear anything but the wrist brace itself to work. Even the simple, black, mesh material made Crowe laugh into his coffee cup and Frost question her with his eyes. Anything more than the brace and she knew Frost wouldn't be secure in her ability to have his back on scene. Anything more than the wrist brace and she wouldn't trust herself.

At home was a whole other story. Maura was more of a permanent fixture in her apartment than ever before, working with Jane to ice and heat her hands as she learned tendon-strengthening exercises. They spent their usual evenings on the couch in front of a TiVoed documentary or baseball game, but commercial breaks were opportunities to play twelve more pages of old school practice music or the hymn book hidden in her bench.

With incredible ease and grace, Maura turned the process into a game. If they were watching ESPN, Jane increased the tension in her hand exercisers each time a newscaster used a player's nickname, and decreased it each time they said the player's full name. During history channel specials, Maura added ten minutes extra time to the brunette's nightly soak in hot water and Epsom salts each time Jane made a sarcastic comment about the interviewees. Several times, Jane forgot the whole point of all of the physical therapy contraptions littering her kitchen and coffee tables, and found herself wrapping her wrists in the temperature-sensitive bandage tape Maura had found the minute she walked in the door, without really thinking about it.

And it wasn't as if the whole process wasn't working. Jane could feel her hands becoming more prepared to play for long periods at a time each time she settled in at her piano, and by week three, she could play all of the four introductory pieces that she'd chosen for the service. Unfortunately, that left Christmas only two weeks away.

"C'mon, Maura! I think I can do the processional pieces now. My hands don't even hurt!" The blonde fixed a disbelieving stare at her best friend whose shoulders slumped. "That much…"

"If you push your muscles too far in a short span of time, you will do more damage to them than is beneficial to the strengthening process. You've done those four successfully. Leave it alone for another two hours." The blonde folded the sheet music pages in front of Jane and stacked them neatly on the closed top of the upright before moving into the kitchen to retrieve several rolls of ice wraps. Jane sighed, feeling her frustration blooming.

"I don't think so. I had all four almost perfect yesterday. If I don't push fast enough, I'll never be ready in time for Christmas." When Maura moved to take Jane's hand in her own, an ice wrap prepared, Jane pulled free with a yank. "I'm serious! Stop with the bandage shit. I want to get through another song." Maura shook her head.

"You need to care for your muscles, Jane. Otherwise, you'll be undoing all of your hard work." Jane slammed open the piano and grabbed for her sheet music.

"Don't you mean _your_ hard work?" She mutter under her breath.

"No, I mean _your_ hard work. No need to get ridiculous." Maura remained standing at the piano, her stare hard and unflinching.

"So, now I'm ridiculous?" Jane scoffed and raised her hands to the keys, beginning a harsh, up tempo version of "Angels We Have Heard on High." Maura waited patiently, refusing to reply to Jane's comment, and watched as straining fingers reached over full chords. Jane's face was a picture of angry concentration, and as one finger took a misstep, it turned into a full scowl. Maura winced internally, but remained still so that she wouldn't distract Jane further. Another misstep and the scowl became a muttered curse. A jarring chord and a string of curse met the silence of the piano.

"Jane," Maura began, her voice soft, but Jane's frustration had boiled into anger. The brunette slammed the piano closed once more and rose so quickly, the bench toppled over backwards. Maura couldn't keep her flinch inwards, though she tried as best she could, and she watched with concern as Jane paced towards her bedroom. For a moment, Maura contemplated not going after her best friend, letting her cool down in her own way, but a loud crash put an end to that idea and she hurried after Jane. In the doorway, Maura watched as Jane chucked a throw pillow heavily at the headboard of her bed, then snagged an empty hanger from the end of her bed and hurled it towards her dresser. The blonde sucked in a breath as the hanger just missed hooking the top of Jane's lamp and crashed into the surface of the mirror, bouncing into the midst of her bottles of perfume and lotion. Jane swung wildly around, looking for something new to throw, but Maura decided it was time to intervene. She draped the ice wraps over the doorknob and swiftly moved herself into Jane's path.

"Jane, stop." In a move she knew would have been dangerous for anyone else to accomplish, Maura raised her hands to Jane's biceps and held on, her grip gentle but firm. Jane could have pulled away easily, and she could have hurt Maura, as well, but instead she froze, her eyes a wild mixture of self-loathing, frustration, and tears. Her hands came up and gripped Maura's elbows in response to the shorter woman's grasp, and for several moments, the two women stood together like that, Jane's chest heaving in both anger and exertion.

"I'm done, Maur. I'm fuckin' done." Maura refused to break her gaze with Jane while her mind worked speedily through the many possibilities of what she could say. A small part of her belatedly realized that Jane was the only person she'd ever, in her life, felt comfortable enough with to maintain eye contact with for extended periods of time, especially while at a loss for something non-trivial and socially appropriate to say.

"No you're not," the blonde finally settled on, trusting in her familiarity with Jane's passionate nature. "You're not done because you haven't succeeded. But you will be done soon if you don't take a break." Maura unconsciously allowed her hands to slide up Jane's arms and over her shoulders, resting them lightly on the curve to her neck, her thumbs finding two protruding collarbones. Jane was silent, and Maura could practically see the thoughts racing through her mind. "Trust me, Jane. You will be able to do this."

It wasn't as if either of them had never said those words before. _Trust me_. They were words which lived between them as tangibly as any gift or cherished memory. Maura trusted Jane, as she had never had another person to trust before, with all of her quirks and misunderstandings, all of her intelligence and emotion. And Jane trusted Maura. Trusted her enough to be weak and to be incredibly strong; trusted her enough that she cared about Maura as much as she cared about her little brothers, and she let Maura care about her. So Jane kissed her best friend. She leaned down to meet soft lips which had been searching for hers in the precise moment they met, and kissed her ghostingly, then thoroughly. Jane kissed Maura until the tightness in her chest, angry and pushing tears against the backs of her eyes, eased into a slow hum, then kissed her again.

When they moved apart slightly, Jane kept a hold of Maura's elbows, searching the shorter woman's face for a reaction. Maura smiled softly and tilted her head to the side, waiting for Jane to speak.

"I trust you," the brunette explained, slowly. "Right now, I trust you." Maura grinned.

"You'd better.


	4. What Do You Think?

**Silent Night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!**

**Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.**

_The dreams changed suddenly. The heat of a worn, wooden bench beneath her thighs was replaced by a cool, plush couch with green printing. Beneath her fingertips, she encountered skin and heat and the softest of jutting hip bones, a graceful spine, a ladder of ribs, instead of ivory keys. Maura's mouth fit seamlessly over her lips, and the beautiful woman's capable hands dug themselves into Jane's hair._

_Dreams. Each night._

_Sometimes, they kissed against the side of Maura's Prius, outside of the precinct in the middle of a tough case. Sometimes, the venue was less familiar: the foyer of a vaguely recognizable bistro Jane thinks Maura once dragged her to or the alley next to Frankie's apartment building where she sometimes had to park her car._

_And sometimes, they don't as much kiss as simply touch one another. In the morgue office, Jane's scarred hands find the perfect ergonomic curve in the rise of Maura's shoulder into the column of her neck. During a Sunday night meal with her family (in Jane's dreams, Pop is still at the head of the table, and sometimes Tommy stays for the whole meal), Maura's hand is on her thigh and her arm drifts to the back of the blonde's chair periodically._

_Jane dreams and, in sleep, the muscles of her hands ease._

. . .

Maura's insistence that Jane let her training take time had paid off, as both women inherently knew it would. Three days before Christmas, Jane had played the four introductory pieces, two processionals, and two recessionals through each night for three days, without mistake. Last night, she'd also gotten through the gospel piece, although she'd kept a heat pad on her lap and rested her hands for the time it took Maura to read the planned section of Luke's nativity story. The brunette detective is unsure she'll have the courage to bring the wraps and pads with her to church, but for now they are doing their job well.

"Yo, Janie, you done yet?" Frankie's voice called to Jane through the homicide room at the station, his head poked through the door from the outside hallway. Jane looked up, then grinned and closed the folder she'd been perusing. As it's the Friday before Christmas, the team was meeting down in the morgue for their Secret Santa exchange.

"How's the spread?" Jane asked as she followed her little brother into the elevator.

"Maura organized everything, so it's pretty damn fine. She even got us a hot dog machine." Jane chuckled and rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but feel warmed from the inside out by the M.E.'s constant attempts to mesh her world with the blue collar atmosphere at BPD. The pair exited the elevator on the bottom floor and immediately, Jane could pick out the sound of Maura's laughter echoing from the stainless steel room. Grinning unconsciously in response, her long legs increased her stride through the double glass doors and into the morgue. The M.E. had scrubbed the room until it shined, and had moved the three bodies in her storage to the adjacent set of freezers usually used only during touch case loads as extra space. The autopsy tables had been covered in cotton and polyester tablecloths, and a small Christmas tree covered in multi-denominational ornaments sat in the center of the wall of body freezers, effectively removing the most gruesome aspect of the room. Even Frost seemed comfortable in the festive environment, sitting on one of the ledges by a sink and drinking wine out of a large glass.

"Jane!" Maura's eyes glittered brightly as she made her way towards the pair of siblings. "I'm glad Frankie was able to tear you away from your work. I was beginning to worry you didn't want to come." Maura's grin was the widest Jane had ever seen it, and she found herself wanting to thank every officer and staff member present for making the medical examiner feel so much a part of their motley cop crew.

"Are you kidding? I was sold the minute I heard there was a hot dog machine!" Jane reached out and wrapped an arm around Maura's neck and shoulders, pulling her into a sideways hug, then walking them towards the machine in question.

"I even made sure they included chili and nacho cheese. I do not think I will ever understand your desire to eat more saturated fats than should legally be allowed on one portion of food, but I decided that the holidays are more than reason enough to ignore your eating habits." Jane chuckled, then pressed a kiss to Maura's temple, not caring if the officers surrounding them read into the move.

"You are stunning," the brunette murmured, then left Maura's side to load up a giant hot dog.

. . .

_Silent night. Holy night. All is calm; all is bright. 'Round yon virgin: mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep, in heavenly peace._

_Somewhere beyond the realm of conscious thought, Jane felt someone slide onto the bench beside her. Her body knew the added warmth and the sweetness which pervaded the air, but her eyes and thoughts saw only black lines across yellowed pages and black blocks between yellowed keys. Stretch, she thought feverishly. Get there. Stretch again. Smooth. Stay smooth._

_Silent night. Holy night. Shepherds quake at the sight. Glory streams from heaven, afar. Heavenly hosts sing, Hallelujah! Christ the Savior is born._

_No. There are tears on her cheeks but she doesn't recall blinking them away from blurring the pages before her. But she isn't really looking at the pages any longer, which might be why she hasn't noticed. Her world has narrowed to keys and pain. Tight pain that blossoms with the swell of voices._

_And then, there is another hand with hers and it replaces the top line. Sure fingers move deftly over the surface of the piano keys and then another hand moves over her wrist and into her scarred palm. Heat. Trembling._

_Silent night. Holy night. Son of God: love's pure light. Radiance streams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace. Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!_

. . .

Jane sat on the edge of her bed, holding her head in her hands as her elbows rested on her knees. Her slacks were pressed into expert creases and her suit jacket was immaculate, but she felt exposed. Unprepared.

"What do you think?" Maura's voice was purposefully low and gentle. She leaned against the doorframe into the master bath, with the lamp inside lighting her from behind, and contemplated her girlfriend's defeated posture. Jane looked up at her words an smiled for the first time that evening.

"You are stunning," she returned, sitting up straight and clasping her hands in her lap. Maura's red dress was a perfect blend of modest and appealing, making her confident enough to wear it to church with Angela Rizzoli, but also doing its duty in catching Jane's eye.

"Thank you," the almost-blonde woman responded, smiling fully before moving to settle demurely on the bed beside Jane. "You will have to help me tonight, you know?" Jane nodded and placed a hand on Maura's thigh. The shorter woman slid her own hand under Jane's and twined their fingers together. For a few moments, they sat together like that, simply holding hands and brushing their arms together softly. "Come, love." Maura stood but did not release Jane. "Show me this part of your world."

Jane smiled an almost full smile and rose as well. Tugging gently on their clasped hands, she pulled Maura's body to hers. They kissed, sweetly and deeply.

"Okay. I'm ready." Jane pulled them towards the door. "Let's do this."


	5. And wonders—wonders!

**Silent Night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!**

**Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.**

Darkness had spread through the cavernous building like an old quilt, rich with the feeling of safety, and warm in a way that darkness usually wasn't. Around her, she could almost feel the heat of a thousand tiny candles as they flickered, casting moving shadows against quarried stone and colored glass. She did not notice the congregation of hundreds or the movement of children in the aisles, holding pillared candles and trying not to fidget. She didn't notice the flapping of vestments or the smell of spiced cologne as the man in charge of the lights moved past her, returning to his own family. She felt, more than heard, the lowered lights, the ethereal hush which washed over the room, and the gentle glitter of snow as it blanketed the roof far above her. In contrast to her everyday persona, her focus narrowed completely to the ivory keys in front of her.

Her hands felt numb, which was never a good sign. She'd made it through several instrumental introductory pieces—classical music with a touch of Christmas that she'd known almost by heart for seventeen years—and the processional. _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!_ had never felt as lively as it had tonight as she realized that she was doing it, her hands were doing it, her fingers were doing it. Now, her play count was up to eleven. One more song, then two pieces to lead out, and she could say that she'd done it.

But could she do it?

On her lap lay a heating pad, doing more to warm her thighs than her wrists as she played song after song in quick succession. The gospel had been long, which was good. It gave her a chance to wrap her wrists, praying to a God she felt more close to at Christmas time, in this age-old church, then at any other time, that the heat would somehow find its way to the inside of her body where slim tendons were pulsing against one another for freedom and peace. But it was over now, and the moment had come before any of the pain could ease.

Her fingertips brushed across the tops of the keys and then she moved her body into the song, opening with the end of the line in a gentle lullaby and pushing through to the verse.

_Silent night. Holy night. All is calm; all is bright. 'Round yon virgin: mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep, in heavenly peace._

Somewhere beyond the realm of conscious thought, Jane felt someone slide onto the bench beside her. Her body knew the added warmth and the sweetness which pervaded the air, but her eyes and thoughts saw only black lines across yellowed pages and black blocks between yellowed keys. Stretch, she thought feverishly. Get there. Stretch again. Smooth. Stay smooth.

No. There are tears on her cheeks but she doesn't recall blinking them away from blurring the pages before her. But she isn't really looking at the pages any longer, which might be why she hasn't noticed. Her world has narrowed to keys and pain. Tight pain that blossoms with the swell of voices.

And then, there is another hand with hers and it replaces the top line. Sure fingers move deftly over the surface of the piano keys and then another hand moves over her wrist and into her scarred palm. Heat. Trembling.

_Silent night. Holy night. Shepherds quake at the sight. Glory streams from heaven, afar. Heavenly hosts sing, Hallelujah! Christ the Savior is born._

Maura is with her.

Maura is next to her on the piano bench, playing the top line as effortlessly as Jane could have known she would if she had stopped at all in the last three weeks to wonder if Maura played the piano. Her shaking right hand feels as if it is no longer attached to her body, only she can still feel the pain radiating up to her shoulder, so she knows it must be. Maura's skin is cool against her inflamed palm, and the weight of the smaller hand pressing her upturned arm down onto her thigh feels like heaven.

Jane is still crying, but she's breathing and seeing the music in front of her again, and the song is almost over.

_Silent night. Holy night. Son of God: love's pure light. Radiance streams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace. Jesus, Lord, at thy birth! Jesus, Lord, at they birth._

Her left hand is still tense, still trembling across the top of the keys, but it is stronger than her right hand and it can find the last chords. Maura's hand slows through the end of the piece in synch with hers perfectly, which is the third thing that doesn't surprise Jane (though she absentmindedly thinks that it should).

In the silence which follows the song, Jane hears Father Zach begin a closing prayed, and feels the congregation as it joins him, several hundred voices falling into an intonation together which is centuries old and feels like coming home. Maura's right hand finds Jane's right hand and she rubs nimble fingers into the tendons of her wrist slowly.

The brunette turns to her best friend, unsure of what to say. Her eyes are dark with pain, but Maura can see gratitude and peace, and hope in them. She smiles a little bit and slides her hand down to intertwine with Jane's their fingers curling together.

"Let me do the next one?" The prayer is coming to a close. Father Zach will send them out with a benediction and a celebratory cry of "Merry Christmas!" The choir will stand as one massive group in their brightly colored vestments. Jane nods.

"I love you," she whispers. Maura's smile widens into a grin, even as her hands find the piano keys. Jane shifts down the bench slightly, but doesn't leave the warmth of Maura's side.

_Joy to the world! The Lord has come! Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing—and heaven and nature sing! And heaven—and heaven—and nature sing!_

Jane wraps her wrists in heat so she can get through the final recessional. She watches Maura's fingers on the piano keys and she thinks about Christmas dinner, holding hands, her little brothers, Maura's present, missing her dad, and kissing Maura to sleep that night. She lets herself get lost in the giddy happiness of this, her favorite song, and decides that Maura and she are going to last forever.

_And wonders—wonders!—of His love!_

**The end!**

**Thank you all for a wonderful ride. A couple of you have asked that this keep going but I think we're done here, for now at least. I have a couple of one shots to write, and then one massively long piece that will follow either this piece or **_**Ask Me**_**, so keep your eye out. You are wonderful readers! Your reviews keep me going more than you can know.**


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